They Will You Listen
by Tinhen
Summary: To save her brother from a murder rap, Sara Sidle turns to a gritty private eye named Stokes and his overeager protege, Greg, for help. AU set in 1947. Features entire cast in ahem revolutionary roles.
1. The light overhead buzzed intermittently

They Will You Listen

Author: Tinhen (Tinuviel Henneth)

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I am not, nor am I in any way affiliated with CBS, Anthony Zuiker, or anybody else involved in the production of CSI.

Summary: AU - With her beloved older brother wrongfully in jail, a desperate Sara Sidle turns to a gritty private eye for help. "Fic noir," set in 1947. Un-shippy. Sara-centric. Features entire cast in revolutionary roles. Meh.

NoteOne: While I was working on my Sara/Greg casefile-that-will-not-end, I was bitten by this nasty little bunny. I spent about eight hours in one sitting doing research, and I'm hoping I've executed the hard-boiled type with my Nick, although it might not be as clear in this chapter as he's hardly even in it.

NoteTwo: As for shipping herein, the only guarantee I make is no Sara/Grissom, for reasons that will be quite apparent when he makes his entrance.

NoteThree: This is my first posted CSI fic, so I'd love nice comments... but I do prefer honesty. And I'd love a beta offer :nudges:

...on with the show...

They Will You Listen

Chapter One: The light overhead buzzed intermittently.

San Francisco, California

October 22, 1947

Sighing and straightening her cherry-red suit jacket, Sara Sidle checked the name scrawled on the index card against the one painted in peeling black letters on the frosted window of the door. They matched. She had tried to protest the location, as it was tucked in a darker end of town, but the taxi driver had assured her she was in the right place. Her mood was black enough that she could easily imagine the shady business going down around her. The hallway was dim and the light over the door buzzed intermittently. She took a deep, steadying breath and rapped three times just above the shiny brass lock.

"Come on in," a woman's muffled voice called out, sweet and tinted with a musical Texas twang. The phone rang inside as she turned the knob and the same woman's voice said, "Nick Stokes, Private Investigator." This was the right place, all right.

Sara looked around the office. The secretary's desk was tidy and sported a neat little lamp, but it was the only light in the room and the overall effect was well-executed grimy shabbiness. It was exactly as she had expected it to be. There was the lingering odor of cigar creeping under the closed door that led to the investigator's office. Another desk was shoved in the far corner, most of which was covered in at least a foot of paper and file folders and none of it looking in the least organized. A thin young man in his shirtsleeves was tipped back in his chair, Fedora covering his face. He was snoring lightly and bobbing back and forth. There was some kind of brass plaque on the clean corner of his desk, but it was too dark to read what it said. A few framed something-or-others hung on the dark paneled walls, but Sara didn't really care what any of them said.

"No, I'm sorry, Mr. Sanders is unavailable at the moment," said the secretary, a plump, middle-aged woman with a blond bun and snood. She glanced at the sleeping man with a smirk and laughed at whatever the caller said. "Of course, Mrs. Sanders, I'll make sure the boy's got his lunch. Have a nice day."

Sara stood awkwardly by the door and fussed with the chain-link strap on her pocketbook. She tugged the veil on her hat further down over her eyes, then decided against it and shoved it up and out of the way completely. The secretary hung up the phone and fixed a cheerful smile on her. "What can I do for you, Miss?" she asked.

She cleared her throat and stepped into the lamplight. "My name is Sara Sidle and I think I might have something I need investigated by Mr. Stokes," she said. She spoke with a slight Boston accent.

The secretary's lips twitched and she glanced at the closed office door. For the first time, Sara could hear voices, although it sounded like the radio to her. "Well, my name's Georgia Stokes, and Nicky's my nephew. We're a bit full lately, my dear." She glanced down at the ledger in front of her, which was full of notes written in a neat, if old-fashioned hand, with sweeping angles and loops. Sara frowned, glanced at the sleeper in the corner, and strained to hear what sounded just like the news to her. "Why don't you tell me just what it is you 're here about."

Just as Sara opened her mouth, the phone rang again. "Nick Stokes, Private Investigator," Georgia answered cheerfully. There was a buzzing and her smile flickered. "All right, Mr. Brown. Hold on just a moment, I'll transfer you right to him. Yes-- yes, Mr. Brown. I realize it's urgent. Hold on just a moment, Mr. Brown." She scowled and set the receiver down. Rising from her seat, she maneuvered her sizable bottom around the corner of her desk, crossed the lobby, and unceremoniously stuck her head into her nephew's office. "Nicky, Mr. Brown's on the phone. Sounds irate."

Sara caught a heady whiff of cigar and heard a well-developed Texan drawl say, "--always irate, though, ain't he?" before Georgia let the door close. A red light on the phone went out and Georgia returned the receiver to its cradle, shaking her head.

"Right, sorry about that, Miss Saddle," she said as she resumed her seat.

"Sidle," Sara corrected automatically.

"Of course," Georgia said graciously, flipping the page in the ledger to a clean one. "What was it you said your troubles were again?"

Sara straightened her spine and tightened her grip on her handbag. "I would rather just discuss it with Mr. Stokes, really," she said.

Something about her general unease and the way her eyes kept darting around the dark little office must have given Georgia a hint and she didn't press the case. She did, however, look apologetic. "I do wish you would have popped in even ten minutes ago. See, generally when Mr. Brown calls Nicky's got some good information and he leaves right--"

"It's not mine, Sarge, I swear! It's Kinney's, or maybe Harper's, or even DiPietro's, but not mine!" the sleeping man in the corner shouted and then fell out of his chair.

Both women whirled around to see what the commotion was as he peeled himself from the dusty floor and grumbled to himself. He flashed a them a sheepish smile and settled back in his chair, hat firmly back over his face. Sara didn't even have enough time to register what he really looked like.

"That would be Greg Sanders, Nicky's new protege," Georgia explained in a stage-whisper at Sara's raised eyebrows. "Nicky mostly just leaves him to waste away in that corner, so it just stymies me why he bothered to take him on at all."

"I'm growing mushrooms over here," Sanders added, his voice muffled. "Big, fat toadstools, growing out from between my toes."

Sara was mildly disturbed and she wondered idly if she wasn't developing whiplash from turning back and forth so rapidly.

"We think he was a bit damaged in the war," Georgia said in an undertone, tapping her temple with her index finger. Sanders either ignored it or appeared not to have heard at all. She seemed to remember the phone call from earlier and sat up a tad straighter. "Oh, Greg, your mother called, too. She wasn't sure if you'd brought your lunch with you." He groaned but didn't respond. His chair creaked as she shifted positions.

"Right..." Sara cleared her throat and fiddled some more with the handle of her purse. "Should I just come back tomorr--"

She didn't even get the chance to finish before the door to Mr. Stokes' office burst open and he stood in the doorway looking particularly stormy. There were large windows in there, lighting him from the back and casting an impressive shadow upon Sara. She shrank back a step. Greg fell out of his chair again. "Warrick's got nothin', Georgia. Nothin' at all. Damn all of it. Bezich is just gonna git away with this."

"Ya can't win all the time, Nicky," she replied, sounding rather bored.

"I need a real strong cup of black coffee," Mr. Stokes growled, looking back over his shoulder. He didn't seem to be smoking anything, and Sara resolved to assume nothing. She also resolved to, perhaps, find herself another investigator, although Brass had said there was no one better. Brass had been bartending down the street from her apartment longer than she'd been alive, so she trusted his knowledge. Even so, this Stokes place seemed just the least bit insane.

"And who do you want to answer the phones while I make that happen?" Georgia asked in a very saccharine voice, as though he was nine and asking for a lollipop.

All three of them turned and looked at Sanders in the corner, who groaned again and took off his hat to glower at them. He certainly looked no older than maybe nineteen, and Sara thought he was just as cute as a puppy. He looked like he'd fought with a bottle of peroxide and lost, as his neatly combed hair was at least four varying shades of brown and blond. Or, his formerly neatly-combed hair was, because sleeping with the hat over his face had rumpled the front of it rather beyond repair.

"Fine, fine," he said. "Glorified errand boy to the rescue. It's a good thing I live ten minutes away." He stood up, removed his suit jacket from where it was arranged over the back of the chair, shook it out, and shrugged it on. He glanced at Sara. "How is it out? Still about to rain?"

She blinked and didn't respond for a second. "Uh--er, it's gray out."

He grinned, and although she couldn't see his face all that well, his teeth were very white. "Coat it is," he said, turning and taking a black raincoat off the hat-rack in the corner. He knocked another man's hat to the floor and froze, glancing over at his shoulder at Stokes, who was leaning against his aunt's desk and discussing something with her in a very low voice. Sanders flipped the hat into the air with his foot and hastily hung it back on the hook. He shot Sara another grin and slipped out, tugging his own hat down over his eyebrows as he went.

"Did Warrick say anything constructive at all?" Georgia asked, changing her tack.

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "Just that I should go talk to Mugs-- really put the screws to her this time." He jumped off the desk and snapped his fingers. "That's the ticket, Georgia," he said. "I'm gonna do just that."

He took a step back towards his office but must have seen Sara in her bright red wool suit for the first time because he stopped and stared at her. Georgia put down the ledger and looked at the young woman as well. Sara stood there for a moment before she realized she was the subject of both Stokes' attention. She immediately turned pink and looked at the floor.

"This here is a Miss Sara Saddle and she's got some issue she wants to take up with you in _private_," Georgia said, exaggerating her own drawl and getting Sara's name wrong again.

Stokes' face cracked into a smile that, to Sara, looked mightily uncomfortable. His jaw was wide and square and he needed a shave and a pressing. His dark hair looked like he'd raked his fingers through it several times in frustration and had not expected polite company afterwards. He might have been handsome, too, given ample time to prepare himself and affix a genuine smile on his lips. He stepped forward and offered her a hand the size of a dinner plate, "Nick Stokes, Miss Saddle. How are you this morning?"

"Actually, it's past three, and my name's Sidle, not Saddle," she said, shaking his bear paw with her own dainty hand and then glancing at Georgia, who watched them far too avidly. "Your aunt here said you were far too busy with all your current clients, although I can't imagine you have much business with your office in the slums like this. My problem is rather dire, I must admit, and I do think it's worth your time." She had to remind herself not to wring her hands.

"Tell me on the way?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. She looked startled but he cut her off before she could refuse. "Good. Let me get my slicker."

After he disappeared back into his office, Sara turned to Georgia with big eyes. "He can't expect me to go with him!" she said desperately.

Georgia laughed. "Sorry, babe, but that might be the only way you get your story heard today. Anyway, it's just Mugs. She's an old moll with a mean ol' bark but not much of a bite. We deal with her all the time."

Not feeling at all reassured, Sara deflated and she pulled the veil on her hat down over eyes. Her case simply couldn't wait for tomorrow and she resigned herself to the fact she would be having an adventure. Stokes reappeared right then and he plucked his hat off the hat rack in the corner by Sanders' hopelessly messy desk. "Greggo dropped it, didn't he?" he asked no one in particular, dusting imaginary dirt from the brim and then tugging it down onto his head.

"Have fun, Miss Saddle," Georgia called as the office door closed behind Sara.

...chapter fin

Dedicated to the old friend Katie with whom I haven't spoken since freshman year

In **Chapter Two**... there will be visits to Catherine and Archie, as well as more Greg-being-Greg. And plenty of Hard-Boiled!Nick.

posted July 21, 2005, by tinhen.


	2. They both slept in the penthouse

They Will You Listen

Chapter Two: They both slept in the penthouse.

* * *

still San Francisco, California

still October 22, 1947

The ride was silent. Stokes didn't seem all that keen on conversation, and he was a terrible driver, so Sara didn't see fit to distract him. It was a nice enough drive along the coast, through a well-to-do neighborhood of jazz-era houses. She could sort of make out the blue of the Pacific on the other side of the hills, and suddenly wanted to forget the whole mess with her brother and plunge her toes into the water. She'd been so young the last time she had been in California, and didn't remember the water well, but it certainly looked as blue as people described it. It was blue even though the sky was overcast and the color of steel wool. It threatened rain.

"What about your coffee?" she asked suddenly, turning to the detective.

He shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned. "Greg won't take it personally," he said, he took one hand off the wheel to adjust his hat and she squeezed her eyes shut, counting backwards from ten and totally losing track of the conversation. "He'll probably drink it himself." Oh, right. Coffee.

"Why don't you have a percolator in the off-EEEEEE--" He took a very sudden turn a little too sharply and her sentence trailed off into a high-pitched squeal as she latched onto the open window for support. He laughed and slowed down as he pulled into a neat, tree-lined driveway. "Were you reared in a barn?" she snapped. "No, really. You have the social skills of a magpie. A very large, square Texan magpie."

The house, a large white stucco confection that fairly sparkled in the partial sunlight, sat back from the road and featured a well-kempt green lawn, like a cake on a Depression glass platter. A green gazing ball gleamed under a window box full of yellow chrysanthemums. There was a woman standing at the open front door, her hand shading her eyes. The wind picked up her loose, dark-blonde hair and the edge of her knee-length skirt. Stokes waved to her, and she waved back with her unoccupied hand, recognizing his car.

"And this vehicle? It's an antique. You should treat it better. My brother, Tony, would be horrified. He knows cars." She rolled her window up

He ignored her and stepped out of the car, adjusting his hat and not waiting for her to catch up. She crossed her arms over her chest and slammed the door. The blond woman had come down to meet him in the driveway. "Sofia, Sofia, Sofia," he said, clucking his tongue. "You're always radiant."

"And you're always more of a dame than I am, Nicky," she laughed. Her voice was soft but even-- not that of a woman prone to hysterics. Her whole demeanor was one of intense calm, and even the wind that was threatening to make off with Stokes' hat didn't appear to dare to so much as ruffle her clothing. "Let me guess-- you were in the neighborhood and you wanted some dirt." At the look on his face, she sighed. "I tell you once, I tell you fifty times, Nicky, when David died, I got out of the stool-pigeon business."

Stokes chuckled and pulled a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Wouldn't happen to have a match on ya, would ya, Sof?"

She gave him a look that begged his sanity, considering her pleated skirt and white blouse were tight enough to leave nothing to anybody's imagination. She wore it elegantly, of course, standing there with more poise than Sara'd ever had in her life, but it fit like another layer of skin, and there was distinctly no room for a matchbook. "So-_fia_," she stressed. "And no, I don't have a match. Go perpetuate that habit somewhere else." She fluttered her hand vaguely out towards the street.

"Baby, you and I both know you like bein' wise to everythin' too much to ever get out of the business," he purred around the cigarette as he patted his pockets down for his own matchbook.

Sofia sighed and glanced at the sky, somewhat exasperated, possibly asking a higher power for guidance. In the same gesture, she seemed to notice the brunette in red leaning up against his car. "New girl, Nicky?" He glanced back at Sara and shrugged. "What, Sanders not cutting it for you anymore?" Sofia snorted and Sara stood up straighter, not wanting to particularly delve into that comment.

"Eh, you know Greg," he said, the cigarette held in clenched teeth. "That's Sara Saddle. New client Georgia's thrustin' on me."

Sofia repeated Sara's name a few times with a concentrated look on her face. "What's your story, honey?" she called over to her. "You're wasting your time if you think your husband's cheating on you. Nicky only does _seedy_ investigations." There was a mocking tone in her voice, but Sara knew immediately that it was directed at the grouchy detective.

Sara approached the two, squinting to get a better look at the woman. "For the last time, my last name is _Sidle_, not Saddle," she snapped at Stokes. "And I assure you, my case is plenty seedy to satisfy all your requirements." She crossed her arms back over her chest and glowered. As an afterthought, she added, "And I am most certainly not married."

Sofia laughed and eyed Stokes with a speculative gleam Sara didn't like one bit. "Feisty. I like her." She turned and started back up towards the house. "I might have something after all. Come inside, you two. It looks like rain out here."

"This is Mugs?" Sara asked quietly as they followed into the house.

"Nope, this is Sofia. Used to be married to the Assistant District Attorney, 'til he got too close to somethin' and they offed him." He flicked the cigarette he never got around to lighting off into the ferns near the door, which seemed wasteful to Sara. She was a bit of a hoarder.

"If you're going to tell my life story to strangers, Nicky, at least mention that my father was a big-time bookie during Prohibition," Sofia's voice interrupted from inside. Stokes rolled his eyes and took off his hat.

"Right," he drawled. "Apparently her father was a bookie durin' Prohibition," he added, smirking at Sara.

The sitting room was tastefully decorated in blues, with wood paneling and yellow carpet. A slew of photographs on the mantelpiece caught Sara's eye and she went to look at them as Stokes and Sofia sat across from one another in a pair of boxy blue armchairs. There were two young, light-haired children of indeterminate gender, and a portrait of them with Sofia and a dark-haired, bespectacled man Sara assumed was their late father. In another photograph, she was surprised to find that she personally recognized one of the three men: one Al Robbins, the harassed-looking and (now) polio-stricken District Attorney. The other two men were Sofia's husband in his glasses and another she couldn't put a name on but who seemed very familiar. She supposed he'd been an associate of her father's, but that brought up all kinds of nasty thoughts from her childhood. As she did not like to think about her childhood, she moved away from the fireplace and sat on a green couch near the door, staring at the wall.

"I spoke to Al the other day. He's doing better now, he says." Sofia snorted and Sara got the impression that Al liked to claim things about his health that weren't necessarily true. He had been a friend of her father's, and, having met him several times over the years (usually when visiting Tony) she genuinely liked the man. And at least he could walk with just the aid of a crutch. She knew plenty of people suffering from the disease who couldn't even get out of bed. "But I know that's not one bit interesting to you," Sofia continued, giving the detective a wry smile. "You want something you can use in the Bezich case." Her voice got very quiet and even Stokes leaned in closer, putting a hand awkwardly on her shoulder.

"Al knows everything," he assured her. "He's one decent man in the system."

"He does know everything," Sofia agreed. "He thinks there's somebody crooked at PD who's fixing things for Bezich every time something goes sour, but if he had suspicions on whom, he didn't share them with me."

Sara watched Stokes' face as he took in this new information. It seemed to make a great deal of sense to him. "I've seen a lot of things come up on Bezich that woulda damned anybody else," he said slowly, nodding. "Spent any time at the Mermaid lately?"

"If you're talking about that black piano player with the eerie eyes, then, no. I did speak to Gil Grissom, though. Literally ran into him," she said with a smirk and a touch of irony. "He looked... peaky."

Sara knew the name, if not a face to match to it. She thought for a moment. "He used to be a detective, didn't he?" she asked. Both Sofia and Stokes turned their heads to look at her questioningly, Stokes a bit suspiciously.

"Yeah, the best of the best 'til it got to him," Stokes all but growled. "What do you know about him?" Sofia, however, cocked her head and put a hand out to still him.

"You said your last name was Sidle, didn't you?" she asked, eyes narrowed. "As in Jim Sidle?" Sara looked at the floor, her unhappy childhood creeping up on her again. This seemed to be enough for Sofia, who nodded in understanding and glanced at Stokes. "He was the Chief of Police when I was little. He and my dad had this convoluted tug-of-war game going. He wanted to run the rumrunners out of the city, and my father had other ideas." She smiled, reassuringly, and recognition flickered sadly in her eyes. She cocked her head. "How old were you?"

Sara blinked and locked eyes with the blonde. "I was seven," she said sharply, elevating her chin, daring Sofia to delve further. "My brother was fourteen. They sent us to our aunt's in Boston."

"That's your accent." The blonde replied, nodding. "My father was shot in the head with a .22 when I was eighteen," she added with a vague edge of sympathy. "I was in the next room."

The two glared at each other for at least a minute before Stokes intervened and stood up. "Well, I do thank you for the information, Sofia. It's always a pleasure, but we have to head up to Oakland. I have a moll to rough up."

"Mugs?" Sofia snorted. "She'll have you bloody before you're even in the door, Nicky." She turned a cool smile on Sara and nodded. "I understand the sentiment, for what it's worth. My David was murdered, too, and our girls weren't even two years old. It was nice meeting you, Sara."

Sara didn't say anything, just went outside while the two said their informal goodbyes. She briefly considered kicking his car but opted in favor of her shoes, and ended up leaning against her door again with her arms crossed. He came around the corner and wordlessly walked around her, opened his door, and got in.

"Comin' with?" he asked, craning to look up at her through the window. She sighed and acquiesced, climbing in and making sure to slam the door closed as hard as she could. It was just then that a fat raindrop splattered across the windshield. Stokes laughed and backed out of the driveway.

The subsequent ride up to Oakland and this ephemeral Mugs woman was every bit as silent as the one down to Sofia's humble abode. Sara had her arms crossed over her chest in a severe 'go away!' gesture and Stokes was not intent on bothering with her. If he was curious about Sofia's comments, or even the case that had brought her to him, he didn't ask. He just drove through the neighborhoods as fast as he could get away with and she stared out her window. The rain came down steadily through the whole trip, and Sara grimaced at the fact she would have to get wet before she could get the whole Mugs excursion out of the way so they could go back to his office like sane people and she could detail her case to him.

He took a sharp turn that seemed all the more frightening on a wet road and pulled into an open slot along the street, between a milk truck and a blue Chrysler. The building was a nondescript art deco apartment complex constructed out of blond bricks, and although it was very nice looking, the neighborhood itself had something of a seedy undercast to it. That could have been Sara's dark mood talking, though, and the rain that was going to ruin her hat.

He opened his door, but grabbed onto her wrist before she could do the same. "Be careful," he warned, a cautionary glint in his eyes. "I shouldn't even be bringin' you with me to see Mugs. You oughta just stay in the car." At this, her eyes flashed angrily and he reconsidered. "She's dangerous, ma'am, regardless of what my aunt said. Georgia don't have to deal with her directly."

"What do you mean, 'she's dangerous?'" Sara snapped, mocking his accent. "What, she carries a knife around waiting to slit peoples' throats?"

His glowering look morphed into a smirk and she could just see that in his head, he was ruffling her hair like she was fourteen years old. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he growled, letting go of her wrist and hurling himself from the car and into the rain.

She followed him indignantly up the walk and into the building's lobby, where he didn't even pause to shake a little of the rain off of himself and barely afforded her the time to do so. She glared fiercely at the back of his neck and followed him up the art deco staircase, all the while trying to tread carefully in the puddles he left behind. It was quite the consuming task and she nearly didn't realize when he stopped three steps from the top of the flight.

"Stokes, you're a bright spot on a gray day," a woman's husky voice called out from the landing just above them. "Go away."

His hackles raised. "'Lo, Mugs. You're lookin' old and fat. You should get out more." The woman laughed and Sara heard heels clicking on the wood floor, moving closer.

Curious as what such a notorious woman might look like, Sara leaned around him to get a glimpse of the woman on the landing. Whatever Stokes said, she was neither old nor fat. Like Sofia, she was blonde and svelte and well-styled. This woman was perhaps too styled for afternoon, with her hair sweeping over one blue-green eye and flowing to her shoulder blades in soft curls-- à la Veronica Lake. She wore red lipstick that glowed in the gray hallway lights, and a shell-pink wrapper over an elegant black dress. But there the similarities between the blondes ended. The two women were probably around the same age, but years of hard living had given Mugs a much rougher look. It was especially prominent around her eyes-- in her eyes. If they both slept in the penthouse, they had arrived there by very different means. Sofia idly paid for the suite with her shiny, clean money while Mugs sold herself for the privilege.

"Try not to touch anything," Stokes muttered back to Sara.

There was a little clique of chair-sofa-chair set up in a niche in the hallway, framing a window that overlooked the city. The red wallpaper was out-dated and ugly, but the furniture looked new and fashionable, if somewhat boxy and urine yellow. Mugs perched herself on the chair to the left and crossed her legs. Stokes took the cushion closest to her on the couch and Sara awkwardly sat next to him. He did not take his hat off.

"War sent you, didn't he?" Mugs asked, fixing Stokes with a devious look and unwavering attention. "I'm going to fucking kill him."

Sara flinched, but Stokes let out a guffaw that echoed down the corridor. "That's a lie," he said smoothly. "You'll prob'ly fuck 'im but you like 'im too much to kill 'im."

Mugs considered this and then nodded once, not smiling but certainly amused. "You're probably right. Get on with it."

Stokes sat back in his seat and fussed with the brim of his hat. "You always know somethin' that I wanna know, too, Catherine," he said.

Her lips twitched. "You're trying to destroy Chris," she said archly. "Why should I want to help you do that, exactly?" Her eyebrows were sparse and pale. She raised them with an elevated chin, tapping her fingertips on her knee.

"Chris, m'dear, is a pitiful excuse for a human being," Stokes said in a chastising voice.

She laughed. "Well, if it's any consolation to your little biases, so are we. You chase ghosts and I make ghosts." She paused. "Does that make us ghosts, too, I wonder."

Stokes cleared his throat noisily, not a fan of riddles. He changed the subject. "Warrick told me to really put the screws to you this time. He heard some rumblin's about the necklace and knew you'd be in the know."

"I like shiny things, Nicky. Wouldn't I be wearing such a trinket if Chris stole it for me?" She blinked wide, blue eyes and leaned forward just enough so that she could put her hand on his knee. Sara scooted backwards a few inches, but she might as well have waved her hands in front of the woman's face for all she was noticed. "As you can see," she continued, touching her bony clavicles with her other hand, "I am sorely lacking."

"You're not lackin' in anything," he said weightily. She withdrew her hand and stared at him coldly, as though she couldn't quite discern what he meant, then seemed to decide it didn't matter and laughed. The mirth did not reach her eyes. Stokes tensed beside Sara and she looked out the window at the rain, wondering if it was letting up or not.

"Walt, get Mr. Stokes some tea," she said, beckoning her hand to a reedy-looking, auburn-haired man leaning in a doorway down the hall. The man started at being addressed, but nodded.

"No, Walt, that's all right," Stokes said. Sara nudged him in the side with her elbow. He moved away from her. He wasn't watching Mugs but Sara was and the blond caught Walt's eye and nodded briefly anyway.

Walt nodded and disappeared.

"Get out," she said, rising. "I want to enjoy this nice stormy day by myself." Stokes looked up at her, not moving. She leaned down and touched the corner of his square jaw with the pads of two fingers, appraising him. "Get out," she repeated, then turned and disappeared through a black lacquered door Sara hadn't noticed earlier.

Stokes swore and stood up, tugging his hat down over his ears. "Come on," he snarled at Sara, heading toward the staircase. Confused, she stumbled as she stood. Another man, this one very large and swarthy-looking, appeared in a shadowy alcove on the other side of the staircase and upon seeing him, Stokes glared at her more fiercely and began his descent. Nearly swearing herself, Sara followed him down. The puddles were still there, and they worried Sara just as much on the way down. Stokes' haste to leave was not helping her feel any better, either.

The rain had let up a little bit, but Sara knew her hat was already ruined. She'd always liked it, and it was so smart and red. Annoyed, she purposely walked slowly and he was already in the car with his door open when she caught up.

"Well, that was a complete waste of time," he grumbled, slamming his door shut as she slid into the passenger seat. She glowered at him and crossed her arms over her chest, jaw set and eyes straight ahead. He looked at her suddenly, as though he hadn't quite noticed her before. She eyed him warily from the corner of her eye, not sure that she was making the best impression on somebody that she could with a ruined hat. "Say, Miss Saddle, d'you ever tell me about that problem you wanted me to look into?"

If they hadn't been in Oakland, and if it hadn't been raining, she would have gotten out of that car right then and walked home. Brass' recommendation be damned.

_

* * *

----chapter fin_

For disclaimer information, please refer to chapter one. This notice applies to all forthcoming chapters.

Thanks be to all reviewers. I was pleasantly surprised to see so much interest, considering the overwhelming lack of AUs in this fandom. I may stay awhile after all.

In the next chapter, which was originally supposed to be half of this one but it just got too long, there will be lots of Greg and a visit to Hodges' tailor shop.

posted August 16, 2005, by tinhen


End file.
